


What Happens Next

by flyingbuffalo



Category: Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-08 18:37:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18628966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingbuffalo/pseuds/flyingbuffalo
Summary: Post-finale Rebecca and Greg fic





	What Happens Next

It was a Saturday, and instead of sleeping in and then lounging around his apartment eating Chinese food in pajamas, Greg had gotten up at an ungodly hour so he could go to the _theater_. In the months after her open mic in February, Rebecca had been working on premiering a full version of her musical. It was just a local community production, but she was proud of it. And she should be. Community production or not, it was a massive organizational feat, and Rebecca was filling the roles of writer, composer, director, and producer. Not actress or singer, though. That had surprised Greg. Her voice had improved quite a bit since she’d started lessons. Sure, it wasn’t as powerful or controlled as a professional singer’s, and sometimes she missed notes a little bit. But there was something about her voice that gave him goosebumps.

When he asked her about why she wasn’t performing, she’d said, “Everyone was really nice at the open mic—I mean my friends, not the other people there.”

“Yeah, Becky turned out to be a real bitch.”

“ _Right?_ ” Rebecca’s curls bounced as she nodded enthusiastic agreement. “So everyone—”

“Except Becky.”

“—was really nice, but I’ve listened to recordings of myself. I know what I sound like, and nobody wants to listen to a wet goose being squeezed like bagpipes.”

“Becks! Give yourself more credit than that. You’re at least a _swan_ being squeezed like bagpipes.”

Rebecca smacked his shoulder lightly but also laughed. “I guess I did go through an ugly duckling phase.”

“Have you _seen_ baby swans?” Greg asked. “They’re adorable. Even _I_ think they’re cute. Definitely cuter than ducklings. Ducklings are ugly cygnets.”

“I’m sorry—did you just say _cygnets_? And are you kidding me right now? Ducklings are objectively cuter. They’re yellow! Baby swans are _gray_!”

“Well, I happen to like gray.”

“Clearly,” Rebecca said, gesturing to his gray T-shirt over black jeans.

“But seriously,” Greg said, “you could perform. You’re good enough. You know that, right? So why not do it?” He was worried that maybe she was scared or was falling into self-loathing.

“Because I don’t want it to just be ‘good enough.’”

Greg flinched, feeling bad about his choice of words. “That’s not what—”

“I know,” Rebecca said softly, brushing him away. “I like singing, but Rachel …”—that was who she’d cast as lead—“she sings it the way I hear it in my head, the way it _feels_  …” She paused, and Greg waited, giving her time to think. “I want to see it,” she said finally. “All of it, laid out on a stage in front of me for real, not just in my head. I think that’s important.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Greg said. And he really did. To step back from your life and look at all of it objectively, to accept the past for what it was, embracing your mistakes and your successes too and trying to learn from them? He’d done that as well, in his own way.

“Plus,” Rebecca said more lightly, “I’m still the understudy, and Rachel promised to get ‘sick’ for at least one performance.”

“That’s convenient.”

“She probably thought I’d poison her if she didn’t offer.”

Greg let out a huff of air through his nose—his version of a chuckle. That was the moment he had decided that he was definitely still in love with Rebecca.

That conversation had been nearly two months ago. Now the first dress rehearsal was tonight, and Rebecca had somehow managed to convince Greg to help out.

Despite agreeing to wait until 7:00 a.m., she knocked on his door at 6:40. “I’m sorry,” she said as soon as he answered the door. “I know I’m early. I tried to wait, but there’s so much to do. The set painting isn’t done yet, and I need to work out some lighting things. Oh, and I had a great idea for a lyric change last night, and—” She cut off as she gasped for a breath. Greg just stared at her, slightly slack-jawed. He was glad to see her—he didn’t even mind that she was early—but he’d just woken up and hadn’t had any coffee yet. It was hard to keep up with Rebecca’s energy even with a full night’s sleep and a heavy dose of caffeine. He didn’t stand a chance without either. How could anyone be so _happy_ this early in the morning?

“I brought coffee,” Rebecca said, as if on cue, holding out the tall cup in her hand.

“Thanks,” he said. He took the coffee, which felt light for its size. He raised an eyebrow at Rebecca.

“Okay, I drank a _little_ ,” she said, rolling her eyes, “but I purposely got a large for just that reason.”

He took a sip—it was black, no cream or sugar, so it really had been intended for him. That made him smile. “Have you eaten?” he asked her. “Want me to make breakfast? I have bacon.”

Rebecca practically moaned at that, but she said, “No, we don’t have time.”

Greg grabbed his wallet, phone, and keys off the counter. “Okay, let’s go.”

“Wait, that’s it?” Rebecca said, flinging one of her hands out. “That’s all you have to do to get ready? Why did you insist on seven then?”

Greg stepped outside and locked the door behind him. “Because I figured if I told you seven, I could expect you at six thirty.”

“I could have shown up a whole _ten_ minutes earlier?!”

“Yup. Come on, Bunch, we’re wasting time.” Greg smiled and lightly pressed his hand against the small of her back, leading her back toward her car. He could feel her warmth through her thin blouse, which was a dark turquoise that suited her well—not that Greg noticed that kind of thing. It felt natural to rest his hand on Rebecca’s back, but he forced himself to pull away. Since the open mic, they’d begun seeing each other again—as friends only. It had been a year, and they wanted to get to know each other again. For once, they really were taking it slow. Agonizingly slow. Though they had both changed some in the past year, Rebecca still felt familiar to him. It would be so easy to slip right back into a life with her. But he understood the arguments against doing that, and he was a patient man. He could wait.

*

Greg and Rebecca were in the lighting box. For the actual performances, Rebecca would be backstage, but for the dress rehearsal, she’d wanted to watch from up here. Greg tried not to be obvious about it, but he spent nearly as much of the practice performance looking at Rebecca, watching her reactions, as he did at the stage. She cried, several times, and she laughed too and smiled and glowed with pride. She frequently mouthed the words along with the performers, and a few times she sang aloud, her voice breathy and full of emotion.

When it was over, she was silent for a long moment, her eyes closed. It seemed there was a conversation—or maybe a musical number, Greg realized—occurring in her mind. Then she turned to him and asked, “So … what did you think?”

“I loved it,” Greg said, nearly as surprised as she was by the sincerity. He’d been planning to make some joke, but he couldn’t help it. He did love it. How could he not? The whole thing—the lyrics, the music, the dancing, the costumes, everything—was _her_ , embodied on a stage for everyone to see. He’d always felt like he understood Rebecca better than most, and he did, but now he felt like he was really seeing her for the first time. So when he said he loved it, he really meant that he loved her.

“Wait. What?” Her voice did that little high-pitched squeak. He loved that too.

He shrugged. “Musical theater’s not my thing.” Rebecca rolled her eyes at that. “But I liked this one. Although, I have to say, I wasn’t a fan of my drinking song.”

“Ah, you could’ve done without me talking about you peeing your pants?”

“Oh, no, I liked that part actually—very catchy. It was the—” He cut off. Rebecca was nearly bouncing with energy, like a kid with a really juicy secret. “What?”

“No, go on,” she said, bowing her head slightly and waving her hand at him.

“It was the—”

“Mandolin!” she interrupted, giggling.

“Oh, I get it. You did that on purpose.” He shook his finger at her, unable to hold back a smile. “You … you know me well.” Rebecca did her cute combo head tilt and shrug, and it was all he could do to not kiss her right then.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “It was only for tonight. That mandolin player is …” She clicked her tongue and slashed her index finger across her throat. “Not seriously!” she added quickly.

He wanted to tell her he still loved her, but he held his tongue. He wouldn’t pressure her in this. When— _if_ , he mentally corrected—they did this thing again, he wanted to make sure they finally got it right. He and Rebecca had to run out of second chances eventually. They couldn’t afford to rush into things again. He was ready, but she had to be ready too, really ready.

*

There were lots of people there to support Rebecca, so Greg had been hanging out with White Josh while she went around talking to everyone. WhiJo shook his head slightly as Rebecca and Paula squealed, jumping up and down together. “I just don’t get it,” he muttered to himself.

“Then why’d you come?” Greg asked.

“I like to support local theater.”

“Uh-huh,” Greg said exaggeratedly. “A real patron of the arts.”

WhiJo and Rebecca still weren’t friends, but they’d developed a mutual respect for each other. You would never catch the two of them hanging out alone, but they shared so many friends it was inevitable that their paths would cross regularly. They were polite with and even supportive of one another, like successful coparents but with a friend group as opposed to children. It wasn’t a surprise to Greg. WhiJo had always been the most mature of the “West Covina crew,” which was Josh Chan’s new name for their group of high school friends. Greg hated the name. He’d only started using it sarcastically, but now it slipped off his tongue without thought.

People began to filter out of the theater, and WhiJo left too, stopping to shake Rebecca’s hand on his way out. Greg stuck around. Rebecca was his ride, so it wasn’t like he had a choice.

After receiving much congratulations and several promises to attend opening night, Rebecca found her way over to Greg, flushed and happy.

“I should be exhausted,” she said. “How am I not exhausted? I …” Her smile slipped from her face, and her eyes grew far away.

“Rebecca?” Greg said softly. “You okay?”

She shook her head, the smile returning, though more subdued now. “I’m okay.” Greg kept quiet, and she added, “Sometimes I have difficulty telling happiness and mania apart. That’s all.”

“Oh.” Greg didn’t know what to say. “That sounds … hard,” he said lamely, but the reply seemed good enough for Rebecca. His eyes then came to rest on the bouquet of red roses in Rebecca’s arms. How had he not noticed those before? “I should have gotten you flowers,” he said. “I didn’t get you flowers. I’m sorry.”

Rebecca laughed, brushing him off. “No, no, it’s fine. Look, I have flowers already, so I don’t need any more.” She held the bouquet up to show him. “They’re from Paula,” she added, “in case you were wondering, not that you would be, but—”

“I was,” Greg interrupted.

Rebecca paused, smiling slowly at him. “You know, what I really want right now is a big, fat burrito—one as big as my head.” She shifted the bouquet to one hand and held up her hands to demonstrate.

“I could go for that,” he said.

*

“Come on! It’ll be fun!” Rebecca said. She and Greg were sitting in the center of the stage with two giant burritos.

“This might be the _worst_ idea you’ve ever had.”

“No,” she said, swatting at him. She could already tell that he was going to do it. “Okay, ready?” She held up her burrito horizontally and stared him down over the top of it. He sighed and rolled his eyes, but he picked up his burrito, took a giant bite right out of the side, and gave her a smile with his mouth full. She squealed with glee and then took her own big bite from the side of her burrito. “Oh, oh no,” she said immediately, around a mouthful of burrito. “The ingredient ratios are all off. I just got all sour cream.” Greg gave her an _I told you so_ look. Rebecca turned her burrito back to normal, spilling some beans and rice. “Oh, yeah, this was a bad idea. You were right.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, chuckling. “You think?” Greg didn’t laugh much, so it always filled Rebecca with a kind of pride when she was able to make him laugh. God, she hoped she wasn’t too late. Giving up Greg a year ago had been the right thing to do, but it had been hard, _really_ hard. He’d said he wouldn’t wait, and she hadn’t wanted him to. In the year before her open mic, he had dated, but as far as she knew, he hadn’t seen anyone since that night—Valentine’s Day.

“Here,” she said, setting down her burrito and reaching over to grab his and rewrap it in foil, keeping the ingredients packed in.

“I could’ve done that,” he said.

“All right, then do it,” she said, pushing her own burrito toward him. He looked about to retort, but then he simply rewrapped her burrito and handed it back.

“So, Greg …” she said, focusing intently on ripping off a strip of foil around the top of her burrito. She put the burrito down and looked up at him. He was in the middle of a bite but put his burrito down too when he saw her face. “Our friendship means so much to me,” she said. Did Greg’s face fall at that? It gave Rebecca hope, and she continued, “And if that’s all you want, I am fine with that— _truly_. But I still care about you, so much, and I know you said you weren’t going to—”

“I waited,” he blurted out.

Rebecca’s eyes widened. “Greg …”

“I mean, I dated,” he clarified. “But I always thought—hoped—that maybe, eventually—”

Rebecca pulled him into a kiss, wrapping one hand around the back of his neck and gripping the front of his shirt with the other. He responded immediately, cupping her face in his hands and kissing her back with an intensity that sent tears to her eyes. Greg pulled back slightly, wiping her cheek. He looked alarmed.

“It’s okay,” Rebecca said quickly, smiling. “I’m just happy.”

Greg’s face softened. “Me too,” he whispered, resting his forehead on hers. “Though I have to admit that the crying’s turning me on a little.”

Rebecca laughed. “Me too.” To prove the point, she kissed him again, with more tongue this time, and slipped her hand under his shirt, running her fingers across his chest. She felt his stomach tense under her fingers as she traveled back downward, to the top button of his jeans.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Greg asked, his voice low and unbelievably sexy. “We can wait if you want.”

She wrapped her fingers around the base of his erection, and he groaned. “No more waiting,” she said. “I am absolutely sure.”

Their bodies fell into sync as if no time had passed. Greg still remembered all the right buttons to push, and God, his mouth was _heaven_. When she came, she came _hard_ , her legs wrapped around his back, all her muscles clenching around him. “Oh, _fuck_ ,” she whispered, practically drooling. That sent Greg into a quicker, erratic rhythm, and she nearly came again as he orgasmed with a guttural moan.

They lay tangled together for a moment, sweaty and spent, before shuffling off to the bathroom to pee—no more UTIs for Rebecca if she could help it. They both agreed that a three-day sex cocoon was a bad idea but that just one night would be okay. They went to Greg’s apartment, because it was closer and because he promised to make her bacon in the morning.

Being with Greg again was like coming home. It was having someone who understood her; someone she could be herself around, with no fear of losing herself into his identity; someone she loved, loved so much that when she said she just wanted him to be happy, she really meant it. It was a little terrifying and a lot wonderful, and she was ready for it all.


End file.
